


Trust

by catsonfire



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, SMUUUUUT, Secret Intelligence Service | MI6, and there's only a little bit of violence tbh, like a james bond au tbh, not really pwp though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 03:50:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catsonfire/pseuds/catsonfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wants to scold the man doctoring himself in his kitchen. This beautiful blonde man, nearly an entire foot taller than him, with his beautiful fucking face and his beautiful fucking body. He wants to tell him how much he hates him for not listening to him in the first place, how stupid he is to just come to Armin’s flat and give himself stitches and use Armin’s wine and Armin’s sink and Armin’s coat rack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Piyo13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/gifts).



> GODDAMN THIS WAS SO MUCH FUN TO WRITE IM JUST [VIBRATING INTENSIFIES]  
> fer mu darlin iza, who requested something secret service-y the very night I watched Skyfall.

  
_Falling down can feel strange_   
_No one remembers your name_   
_You're losing the game_   
_That's the thing about trust_   
_It's always the same sad story again_   
_You lose all your friends_   
_That's the thing about trust_   


_  
_

“Smith.”

The Quartermaster’s words come out more as a hiss than a name. He’s poised in front of his screens and his computers as though he’s ready to strike at them at any moment while his team scrambles from behind, practically tripping over themselves to reach their varying machines and computers. The screens in front of him show him three different angles of a map of west London (more particularly, Hounslow), several security cameras situated throughout a residential area, online activity of his database, and, of course, the news.

The agent doesn’t respond immediately, but that’s understandable. Armin’s used to this, at least, after so many years of working with him. He’s also got a perfect view of the man, far too large to be inconspicuous, running at a speed faster than he’s ever personally seen him run. They’ve been running since Murray Park and sometimes he wonders how Smith can do it, at least until the next time he hears M’s prideful boasting of his ‘favorite agent’s second-best physical ranking’.  He maneuvers around a man riding straight towards him on a bicycle like he’s done it a thousand times (and with the way things are looking, Armin thinks maybe he has).

Armin scolds himself for the small distraction, realizing he can no longer see the target.

“Smith, I’ve lost sight of him,” he says, eyes straining on the screens as the cameras furiously turn and change and his fingers work the keys of the computer below them. “Can you see him?”

His agent works around a pedestrian this time, before responding.

“He took the turn up ahead,” Armin hears his breathy voice say through the com sitting on the table beside his computer. “I’m almost there, Q.”

His eyes flicker from the cameras, from his view on Smith, to the maps he’s working with. He expands the turn, the small street that works its way off of Whitton Dene, and slams his fingers down on the keys with a force that he’s surprised doesn’t pop the keys right off.

“The church.” He can almost feel the color drain from his face as he pulls his glasses from his nose and places them on the table beside his laptop. The man on the other end of the com makes some sort of noise of affirmation, and Armin realizes he’s probably already figured out that much. He’s always a few steps ahead. He’s rounding the corner now.  “Smith, he’s gone into the church. Don’t go in alone, just check the perimeter and—“

_And what?_ The Quartermaster asks himself, wringing his hands together as though they’ll stimulate his mind. _What will he do, Armin? Wait for the bloody Russian pyromaniac to come waltzing out of the building?_

They’ve prevented the target’s attacks only three times now. The first four attacks had been unanticipated, all focusing on major public spaces, tourist attractions, malls, the likes. They had ranged from spontaneous explosions to rapidly growing fires, and it wasn’t that they were particularly extraordinary or strange; it was just a matter of how abrupt and even erratic they were. The target did little to cover his trails after each attack, or perhaps purposely made himself obvious to attract the attention. Perhaps he was seeking the chase, and that’s what he was getting.

His name is Pavel Volkov.

Armin has heard him speak before, once, when he was so close to Smith that he could hear him over his agent’s mic. It had been their first ever encounter with the man and even the first mission Armin had ever navigated Smith through, the first time the agency had eliminated his attack attempt. Armin had never felt the uselessness he had in that moment, sitting at least seven hundred miles away from the location, behind his work table with his computer and his com and his screens but no connection to Smith other than the voices on the com.

“You will burn nicely,” Volkov had purred, accent thick and hearty, and Armin had gone limp.

He should have known better than to let the four words get to him; they weren’t for him, after all, and Smith had never been one to simply give in. He had been fine. He had lived, made it out with just a small burn blister on his arm that was treated and disappeared in a week’s time.

He’d had nightmares for months. Smith had been the one to comfort him.

They had lost Volkov, but Armin had already decided they wouldn’t lose him again.

“Do _not_ go into the church,” he repeats, but Smith is still barreling at full force, full speed, towards the old and worn-looking building. Armin can’t see his face now, his last camera lingering behind at a lamppost on the corner the terrorist and his pursuer have already rounded.

He can track Smith, he knows, and he can walk him through strategies, but it’s useless. When he can see nothing that Smith can’t already see for himself, he’s as good as dead weight dragging the agent behind schedule. Smith is terrifyingly smart, though he doesn’t quite have the inclination to technology like Armin, and even better with split decisions than Armin is. He’s incredible, Armin thinks, but he worries that maybe he can be too confident with his decisions.

Smith runs straight into the church and Armin loses sight of him entirely.

He slumps down into his chair and swears under his breath.

“Q, calm down,” a voice behind him barks, and he jumps, gripping the edge of his work table to prevent him from falling. Levi (just Levi, no last name, no code name, no date of birth or documented home town; nobody in his division asks questions) steps up behind him, his boots clicking and his suit jacket rustling. He watches the screen with Armin, eyes analyzing. “He’ll be fine. Isn’t that right, Agent Smith?”

“I won’t be if I can’t concentrate,” Smith replies, but it sounds like he wants to laugh or smile. “It’s not very easy to be quiet in an empty church.”

Levi presses the mute button on the com and glances to Armin.

“He’s not fresh with you like that, is he?”

“He is,” Armin replies, smiling a little, although his eyes aren’t on Levi. He has them trained on the screen, watching for any motion in the few stained glass windows he can see now. His fingers itch to un-mute the com. “But in a very unique way.”

“Hmm.”

They’re silent, listening to the sound of Smith’s breathing and the occasional rustle of clothing from where his mic is situated. Armin doesn’t bother to ask Levi why he’s wandered his way into the Q Branch. As he’s learned, Levi tends to invite himself wherever he pleases, and every time he sees him, he’s in a different place. Levi’s been there longer than him, of course—Smith, too—so he probably knows MI-6 like the back of his hand. Sometimes he wonders if the man ever goes home to rest or if he has a home at all (and sometimes he wonders why agent Jaeger follows him around like he’s the most fascinating creature when he hardly speaks; when he does, it’s mostly just profanity).

There’s no movement outside of the church that Armin can see. It’s started to sprinkle a little, and even from the distant view he can see as the leaves of the shrubs surrounding the perimeter of the church sway and duck down from the weight.

It’s five minutes later and one soft, “Nothing yet,” from Smith when Armin sees movement in the stained glass of the second story.

At first, he’s not sure what to make of it—is it Smith? He unmutes the com and asks the agent which floor he’s on, and Smith informs him he’s on the first, in the west-most right corner. Levi re-mutes it to shout something to someone in his staff, much to Armin’s annoyance, but he ignores it in favor for watching and waiting, calculating.

When he sees the shadow again, though, it’s on the opposite side. 

Armin realizes this side is the west right corner.

There’s a flicker of something bright that Armin can see—it looks like a small flame.

His throat constricts on its own, without his permission, and he slams his hand down on the mute button so hard, just like with the keys on his laptop, that he’s afraid he may pop it off or break the com entirely. He thinks he hears Smith say something about hearing movement upstairs, but in a rush, he cuts him off.

“Erw—“ he catches himself, then, and he can feel several pairs of eyes on him. It’s not that he’s not _allowed_ to say Smith’s name, of course, but it’s just too personal, too intimate. “Fuck it— _Smith_ , I think he’s lighting something directly above you! You need to get your ass out right now—“

There’s gunfire that he can hear clear as day over the com. The shadow on the second floor falls and there is no more movement that he can see.

Armin’s whispering under his breath, profanities, encouragement, berating, unenthusiastic and uncharacteristically colorful insults that’s pretty sure he’s heard Levi use before and that’s probably where he’s picked them up. He’s probably repeating, over and over, absolutely uselessly, that Smith needs to vacate the church, but he’s getting no responses. When he sees the flame from the second story flicker angrily, he falls silent and is left to watch flames consume the building.

_+_

 

Armin shuts the door to his flat behind him with a shaky breath. He tugs off his scarf and hangs it on the coat rack, already occupied by a well-loved pea coat and a hat.

They’re not his.

He fingers the material of the coat for a moment, just a moment, while he’s kicking off his uncomfortable shoes, before he pushes the sleeves of his sweater back towards his elbows. He closes his eyes for just a moment, to listen to the soft sounds coming from his kitchen, and runs a hand through his hair to smooth the stress out of himself, before he starts towards the only lit room in the flat.

Erwin’s there, his bare back to the entrance while he leans over Armin’s sink. He can see the bottle of wine—it’s one that Erwin, himself, bought for him—and Armin stands back and watches as he pours it over the personally-stitched gash on his bicep. After everything, the only wound he’d walked away from the burning church was a cut left by glass. They’d told Armin, when he’d finally given himself the mentality to listen, that Erwin had run to the other side of the church and threw himself through the window. Logically, Armin thought, that had been the best decision—the explosion was farther away than it would have been if Erwin had gone through the trouble of fighting to get to the main entrance.

He wants to scold the man doctoring himself in his kitchen. This beautiful blonde man, nearly an entire foot taller than him, with his beautiful fucking face and his beautiful fucking body. He wants to tell him how much he hates him for not listening to him in the first place, how stupid he is to just come to Armin’s flat and give himself stitches and use Armin’s wine and Armin’s sink and Armin’s coat rack.

When Erwin turns to see him, he smiles. He’s not surprised or taken aback.

“Didn’t expect you back so early,” he says, conversational. His voice is smooth, like he hadn’t nearly had himself blown to bits just hours prior. “Or maybe time got away from me.”

“Levi gave me a ride. He said it’d be faster than the tube.”

It’s always like this. Casual small-talk to give Armin time to rein control over his emotions. Erwin learned the first few times that, while Armin was used to seeing people live through near-death experiences, when every single day was a near-death experience, he could lose himself. Erwin had seen him cry so many times the two of them had easily lost count, but Armin could never hate it more.

More than anything, Armin hated looking weak in front of Erwin. _Erwin_ was the one going through it, all by himself most of the time (though sometimes accompanied, if the situation was dire enough), yet _Erwin_ was the one taking care of _him_ when it was finally over.

“He’s been eliminated,” Erwin says softly, nitpicking at his stitches. Armin assumes he’s referring to Volkov. “Nobody was hurt today. I think Levi’s going to end up getting me stuck doing deskwork for about a week. I’ll buy you another bottle of wine. I looked for alcohol but I think I used it all last time.” Erwin looks around for a moment, as if he’s forgetting something, before his blue eyes meet Armin’s and he smiles sheepishly.  “Ah—I broke the transmitter you made for me yesterday, landed on it earlier. I’m sorry.”

Armin waits and watches—exactly what he’s best at. He waits until Erwin’s done speaking, until he’s re-corked the wine and placed it on the counter, until he’s wiped the alcohol off of his wound gingerly and thrown the napkin in the bin.

“I’ll just have to design it to be more durable next time,” Armin whispers, already advancing on his agent. “I forget how heavy you are sometimes.”

He has to reach and pull himself onto his tiptoes, but he manages to pull the taller, older man down into a kiss. Their lips meet briefly, it’s really just a light peck, before Armin pulls back and allows Erwin to straighten up. They hold eye contact for a second before Armin finds himself eying Erwin’s lips. There’s a small split there and he thinks maybe they should doctor that up too, but a hand cups the back of his head and pulls him closer. Their lips meet again, and this time it’s hungry, urgent, and Armin doesn’t give a fuck about that split in Erwin’s lip.

Armin makes no noise other than a gentle, whiny moan when Erwin scoops him up into his arms. He wraps his legs around Erwin’s waist, even when his bottom meets the kitchen counter, and his hands fist Erwin’s hair. Subconsciously, he finds, he’s very cautious and wary of the gash in Erwin’s bicep and he avoids it without really meaning to.

Erwin’s not so gentle with him; he grips Armin’s hips rather roughly but Armin’s glad for it.

Every time he’s reminded of how strong Erwin is, how able he can be, he’s relieved. He’s still alive. He’s still there to pick Armin up and put him wherever he pleases. He’s still there to kiss Armin until he’s breathless, to leave little crescents from his blunt nails in his sides when he slides his hands up under Armin’s sweater.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” Armin hisses against his lips, in between breathing and kissing and arching into the hard body he’s already pressed into. “You fucking listen to me, alright?” He bites down on Erwin’s lower lip and listens to the low growl that rumbles more in his chest than his throat and then, again, “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

He thinks he hears Erwin apologize, but it’s lost to Armin by the overwhelming feeling of a mouth on his own, a tongue skillfully making quick work of turning him to butter. One of his hands remains tangled in Erwin’s short blonde hair while the other claws at his back ruthlessly. Erwin doesn’t complain, of course—Erwin never complains, and even when he points out something he dislikes, Armin can’t bring himself to actually categorize it as pure complaining—and his fingers find the button on Armin’s slacks. They’re off and discarded onto the off-white tiles of the kitchen with no struggle.

Armin grinds his hips pathetically into Erwin’s abdomen, but it does little to give him the friction he craves. His hips stutter and he whines into Erwin’s mouth when his hips are pushed back, harshly pushed into the granite counter, but then Erwin’s palming his erection through his boxers and, really, he doesn’t care anymore. His boxers are gone with a little lift and a tug, and he finds he’s not sitting bare-assed on the freezing counter, but Erwin’s fished a dish towel out of the drawer directly below them.

“Such a gentleman,” Armin whispers, breathing out a soft laugh. Erwin chuckles too, against the skin of his neck where he bites and sucks without much gentleness. Erwin’s fingers wrap around his length and he gasps, eyes fluttering shit as he bites his lip and fights the urge to buck his hips. “Fuck. Erwin.”

“I’d hate to get your counter dirty,” Erwin says, his voice wrecked and ragged and Armin wants his mouth on him again. “I’ve filled my rudeness quota for the day.”

“You can be—Fuck!” His breath catches when the hand on his length is gone and he feels nails on his thigh and two slick fingers pressing up against his entrance. The digits slowly work their way in and he sighs, bonelessly appreciating his agent for all that he is. “You can be ruder to me if you like.”

Erwin only chuckles, working his fingers to open Armin up for him. He’s sucking a hickey into the young man’s shoulder when Armin notices the bottle of olive oil sitting on the counter beside them.

“Olive oil?” Armin asks, and if he didn’t sound so fucking _demolished_ , he might sound offended. “You know very well that’s not—“

“Would you like down from the counter to go fetch the lube? I can stop for you, if you like.”

Armin considers it for a moment, and Erwin lets him for the most part, but when the fingers inside of him curl, so do his toes and he loses his thought with throaty moan.

“Oils break condoms, you know,” he wheezes, and it’s probably the most unsexy way he’s ever spoken to Erwin before, but the agent doesn’t stop his movement, and even moves to the other side of Armin’s neck, tugging his sweater aside instead of simply pulling it off of him. He can’t even argue when Erwin adds a third finger because his eyes nearly cross and he really does buck his hips this time. It’s hard, being seated like this, so he slides forward a little, teetering on the edge of the counter with Erwin’s support.

“We don’t have to use a condom,” Erwin states, like it’s obvious and Armin guesses it really is. They’ve done that before. “I don’t have one anyway, so if you want one, you can grab the lube, too.”

“You’re never this underprepared,” Armin notes. He entertains arguing with himself for just a moment longer before he groans and drops his head to Erwin’s shoulder. “Fuck the condom. Just fuck it. Fuck me.”

“Of course.”

He does, but he’s still not gentle and Armin still doesn’t want him to be.

Armin stays the way he is, balancing on the edge of the counter while Erwin holds his thighs to support him. He pushes deep into him, deeper, until he’s fully sheathed and Armin’s not sure he can breathe anymore. The Quartermaster grips at Erwin’s shoulders like he’s about to fall, which he feels like he is, but when Erwin starts to move, he braces himself on the counter instead.

“God, please,” he moans, head dropping back as Erwin thrusts into him. His fingers spasm against the counter and his legs twitch with each thrust and he thinks there may be tears in his eyes (and yet he can’t figure out if the tears are from feeling so _good,_ or the emotions from earlier, when he’d just stepped into the flat, overflowing and threatening to go pouring down his cheeks).  

He doesn’t have to ask for more, because Erwin gives it to him regardless.

Erwin puts exactly the right amount of force into each push, he uses one hand to fist Armin’s cock again, nice and fluid and easy and in time with his thrusts. He’s still biting the younger man’s neck, and it’s driving him absolutely mad. Every time he tries to focus on feeling one sensation at a time, he’s overcome and knocked back to step one (which really only consists of feeling them all at the same time, instead of individually).

Armin wishes he could last longer, that he could hold out, but with as many times as Erwin’s fucked him, no matter how many times they do the same thing again, the result is always the same.

He feels like he looks ridiculous, cream skin red with heat, mouth open as he breathes heavily and tries his damndest to rein in some air. His lower back is killing him, despite the towel that’s cushioning the harsh corner of the counter, but he’ll regret the position later. All he can think of is how good it feels to be full, how good it feels for Erwin to hit his prostate like he’s a fucking expert, like _this_ is what he does for a living, instead of serving the crown, and _shit,_ he’s definitely sobbing now.

He’s unintelligible, he knows, whimpering, “Erwin, fuck, fuck, fuck, Erwin, God, Erwin, I love you, fuck,” or at least something that resembles it. He’s nearly through, and he clenches around Erwin after every thrust as his own way of letting the older man know. The fingers gripping his thigh rub him encouragingly, because Erwin’s been waiting for that because the bastard remembers everything about Armin and he knows what it means. Armin swears and wraps his arms around Erwin’s neck again, cursing his indecisive side.

He forgets about the neighbors just long enough to scream as he comes, scream Erwin’s name and nearly bang his head on the wall if he hadn’t repositioned himself.

He slumps against Erwin immediately, breathing heavily and whining with every thrust. He sobs out Erwin’s name, the very definition of overstimulation, and he remembers that Erwin likes it when he’s like this. He can feel his lover twitch inside of him and his thrusts finally become erratic (and a part of him, the more mischievous side, thinks that it’s about damn time he lose his composure) as he releases inside of him.

“Fuck,” Armin hears him say, and the Quartermaster manages a soft little giggle.

He’s limp throughout the cleaning process that Erwin’s always sure to go through, something he’s going to apologize for later. He hardly wraps his arms around the older man’s neck as he’s carried off to his bedroom, and he just shoots an uncaring gaze at the clothing left on the floor.

“Thank you for coming home,” Armin whispers, wrapping his arms around Erwin and pulling himself close (because he faces the facts and knows he could never pull Erwin to _him_ ). “I’m so glad you did.”

“Always.”

Erwin kisses his forehead before turning out the light and draping the sheets over the both of them. 


End file.
